


A Moon Among Inferior Stars

by Nanoochka



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Ancient Celts, Celtic warrior Stiles, Centurion Derek, Eagle of the Ninth AU, Finger Sucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape/Non-con References, References to Underage Rape/Non-con, Roman AU, Roman Britain, Slavery, Tattooed Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 14:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanoochka/pseuds/Nanoochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stail, son of Chieftain Cunoval of the Brigantes Tribe, might be the property of the Roman centurion Decimus Helvidius Lupus in deed, but he will never own Stail's spirit. Unless, of course, it is a gift freely given. Eagle of the Ninth AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moon Among Inferior Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Title adapted from Horace's _Epodes_. All graphics made by me; please do not use or repost without permission.
> 
> It isn't necessary to have read Rosemary Sutcliff's _The Eagle of the Ninth_ or watched the movie in order to understand this fic, though I do highly recommend doing both. Though they aren't without their own set of problems, I found them both really enjoyable, and also, hello--that is the gayest shit you will ever encounter. Plus, Jamie Bell in leather. It's win/win, so get on that ASAP. But if you aren't prepared to do that or just want to read the damn fic, all you need to know is that in the source text, Marcus, a Roman centurion, rescues Esca, a captive Briton, from being killed to death for sport in an arena. Later, Marcus's uncle purchases Esca as ~~a birthday gift~~ his slave. Esca swears his loyalty to Marcus in return for saving his life and gives him his father's dagger as his bond, and then the two of them go on an epic adventure through the wilds of Brittania to rescue the Roman eagle standard that had been lost to the Britons years ago by Marcus's father (even though it's clear Esca is probably fucking him around until they are captured by the Seal people and Esca is forced to pretend Marcus is _his_ slave). Eventually Esca betrays his own people in order to protect Marcus, and the two of them go on to have many adventures together. It's all very homoerotic and sweet, and they live out the rest of their lives as part of a happy little farming threesome with a girl ~~but just in the book because the director of the film clearly didn't want anything to get in the middle of Esca and Marcus's big gay love~~. 
> 
> Moving on, you will notice from the summary that Stiles and Derek's names have been changed, and that's because I have a really hard time getting lost in historical AUs where the names are totally inappropriate for the period or geographical region. "Stiles" is about as Celtic-sounding as "Derek" is Latin. As such, I had some fun researching alternate names for them for this story. While Peter and Derek's are pretty self-explanatory (well, I thought "Decimus Helvidius" sounded pretty close to "Derek Hale," and "Petrus" is the Latin form of Peter), Stiles's is a little more complex for a couple reasons. For those fellow history geeks out there who might be reading this, allow me to ramble for a second so you aren't taken aback by my choice to rename Stiles to "Stail." Those of you who aren't history geeks are welcome to read on, too. You might learn something new that will serve absolutely no purpose in your day-to-day life.
> 
> For one thing, Stail/Stiles would've likely spoken Common Brittonic, which was a P-Celtic and Insular Celtic Language spoken by the Britons during the Roman occupation of Britain. Unlike Irish and Scots Gaelic, which are Q-Celtic languages, Brittonic is the language from which Welsh, Cornish, and Breton derived, having developed into distinct dialects around the 8th century. "Stail" is in fact an Irish Gaelic word, which he would not have known or spoken, and nor would any of the Britons portrayed in the book or the film. That being said, Irish Gaelic is what the filmmakers chose to go with when making _The Eagle_ , and for that reason I decided to stick with the Irish Gaelic for the sake of consistency. Also, "Stail" is kind of a hilarious choice to me, because it means "stallion." It's my headcanon for this fic that his tribe members (probably Jackson's Brittonic equivalent) would've bestowed the nickname upon him when Stail remained a virgin longer than anyone else, and it has the added benefit of sounding phonetically similar to "Stiles." (Anyone who is curious about the pronunciation can listen to it [here](http://www.forvo.com/word/stail/).) So no one freak out about the language thing or accuse me of not knowing anything about Celtic languages or having not done my research, okay? I have/did both in abundance, and this was the decision I arrived at based on what I felt would best fit the story.
> 
> So that was the technical ramble! If you're still with me, my many thanks go out to [DirtyDirtyChai](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtydirtychai/pseuds/dirtydirtychai) and [Nat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/febricant/pseuds/febricant) for their epic handholding and amazing betas. And last but not least, I dedicate this story to my old pal [Fossarian](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fossarian/pseuds/fossarian), the Esca to my Marcus, because she was in lockstep with me about the _Eagle_ obsession from Day 1. 
> 
> Explanations of trigger warnings are in the notes at the end.

  

  

     It’s a curious thing, how a gap no wider than a single handbreadth can feel like a thousand leagues when the man across from you is someone you neither trust nor particularly like. Then the distance seems to stretch insurmountably far, becomes as craggy and impossible to cross as the Cumbrian mountains in which you’ve taken shelter. Even for a mountainfaring man, some terrain is too treacherous to navigate alone.

     Cunovindus, son of Chieftan Cunoval of the Brigantes people—nicknamed “Stail” by some of his more vindictive tribesmen, owing to his continuing failure to bed a woman—has kept close quarters with the former centurion Decimus Helvidius Lupus going on five months now; first as a slave, sleeping at the foot of Decimus’s bed in his uncle Petrus’s house in Calleva, and now as Decimus’s guide to the wilds of Britannia north of Hadrian’s Wall. Bundled together in their cloaks and furs to ward off the bone-deep chill of Cumbrian winter, they are no longer master and slave but equals, even if Decimus doesn’t yet know it.

     No, thinks Stail, it is almost painfully certain Decimus thinks he still knows the lay of the land there, despite having brought him along as a chaperone. But that’s Decimus’s mistake to make, and it’s not the way of the Brigantes to coddle where a valuable lesson might be learned instead. Surely even a Roman soldier would understand that philosophy.

     With an irritated sigh that goes unheard by his sleeping companion, Stail drags his eyes away from the coldly beautiful mural of stars and purple-black sky and rolls onto his side. Huddling further down into his woolen cloak, he’s unable to suppress his shivering breath or chattering teeth, resentful, as he is of most things concerning Decimus, of his desire to shift closer to the other man for warmth. They’d argued, at first, about snuffing out their campfire so as not to signal their location to rogue warriors or tribes potentially in the area, but it was an argument Stail had conceded, however reluctantly; other than the heat of their horses tethered nearby, there is no real way to chase the chill from their bones than to keep a small fire burning through the night.

     The show of weakness irks Stail profoundly, even if Decimus isn’t awake to witness it. When they started their journey, it was early autumn, and then it was easy to sleep at opposite ends of their camp, shrouded from their enemies—and each other—by darkness. But the Harvest Moon came and went, and with it the last of the temperate nighttime breezes; now, months later, it’s the Cold Moon that watches over them, and the distance between Stail and Decimus has shrunk each night like the dwindling hours of daylight leading up to the winter solstice.

     Decimus, for his part, has never complained about Stail’s proximity; but then again, he probably thinks he’s a right to Stail’s body heat, same as he takes for granted his right to anything else. They are all alike, these Romans: mighty conquerors in their own minds and unable to imagine a world that does not belong to them in its entirety, that isn’t theirs to command the way Decimus once commanded an army of soldiers. Although Stail is slightly less tempted to spill the guts of this particular Roman than most others he has met—finds it pleasing, almost, to study the changeable pale greens and golden browns of his eyes, or look upon one of Decimus's rare smiles after a good hunt or when Stail says something he finds uncommonly funny—it would be a disservice to them both to say Stail has ever let himself forget, even for a moment, the true nature of their relationship. Decimus may not treat him cruelly like some of his past masters, has never raised a hand or a whip to him, and speaks his name with something approaching respect, but Stail knows exactly what Decimus thinks of him. Can read it in the ease with which he ordered Stail to accompany him on this fool’s venture north of the Wall, like it hadn’t even occurred to him his pet Briton might disobey him. He thinks the blood debt owed to him is what’s keeping Stail from murdering him in his sleep, that Stail feels dutybound not to run or betray him, but that isn’t why. That isn’t why at all.

     “Stop your infernal squirming,” Decimus says suddenly, and to the best of his ability, Stail absolutely does not flinch in surprise. The Roman’s eyes remain closed, though evidently he’s been far more aware of Stail’s nightly discomfort than he ever realized. When Stail doesn’t reply, Decimus cracks one eyelid open, regarding him warily. “I don’t know how you expect me to get any sleep with the sound of your teeth chattering incessantly in my ear.”

     “I care not if you’re well rested,” Stail retorts automatically, words muffled from where he’s attempted to burrow his face into his furs. At least Petrus hadn’t skimped on outfitting them for the journey, though Decimus has lain close enough at night for Stail to know he runs exceptionally hot. He probably doesn’t need half the furs he’s wearing, not that Stail would ask him to spare one extra.

     A faint snort from Decimus’s nostrils mists in the cold air. “Excellent,” he deadpans. “So we can both be groggy and distracted on the morrow when more of your rogue tribesmen attempt to cut us down where we stand.”

     “They aren’t my tribesmen, this far north.” The reminder is unnecessary, Stail having said it often enough, but it seems to give Decimus pleasure to pretend like he is totally ignorant to the division of Celtic tribes on either side of the Wall, though Stail knows he knows better. Too cold and irritable to continue the argument further, however, Stail huffs and says, “Your sleep would go uninterrupted if I were to kill you and wear your skin for added warmth. Not to mention the distinction it would bring me amongst the tribes, should other Britons see me wearing a Roman scalp at my belt.”

     Decimus’s eye closes, the twist of his lips lazy and almost wry in the flickering firelight. Stail can read sarcasm in the arch of his thick, dark eyebrows. “You won’t kill me, slave. Your words are as dull as an old sword.”

     “Give me my father’s knife back, and I will show you the meaning of dull.”

     It’s an empty threat, which Decimus treats appropriately by neither responding nor opening his eye again. A strangled sound escapes Stail’s throat. As he often does in response to Decimus’s arrogance, he wants to rage, wants to hit him, wants to demand,  _Why shouldn’t I kill you right now?_  but the words don’t come. It boils his blood to know Decimus knows this about him, too. He once told Decimus,  _I hate everything you stand for_ , but even then the sentiment had been empty, neutered by Stail’s sense of honour toward the man who’d once saved his life. A part of Stail would like to kill him just to call the Roman’s bluff, reclaim his father's dagger and open Decimus’s throat to prove him wrong, but apart from his own—not inconsiderable—pride, Stail can think of no good explanation as to why he’s yet to make a move. It defies everything he knows about himself. Surely the deaths of his father and mother demand it, though Stail is no closer to exacting his vengeance upon his "master's" flesh than the day Petrus introduced him as Decimus’s new body servant.

     Neither of them slept well in each other’s company, those first few weeks. It wasn’t until the physician came to remove the last of the shrapnel embedded in Decimus’s leg—Stail forced to restrain him, holding him down with his whole body weight so that their faces came close enough for Stail to count the myriad colours in Decimus’s eyes—that Decimus slept the whole night through, for once untroubled by his ghosts or fever dreams. Stail remembers it well, how Decimus hadn’t so much as stirred until dawn, sleep as calm and untroubled as a bairn’s; as though a captive Briton was no threat to him, as though Stail wasn’t a proven warrior of the Brigantes people in his own right.

     “I hate you,” he whispers, mostly to himself, but Decimus, as he often does, hears him anyway. Lying less than a half a foot apart, trying to keep his thoughts to himself is perhaps moot.

     “You’d not still be here if that were true,” Decimus murmurs after a moment. His voice is calm, but even in the dark Stail sees the tiny crease that appears between his eyebrows, the only sign that Decimus is more troubled by the statement than he lets on.

     Well, let him be. It’s been over three months since they left Petrus’s homestead; Stail has had no shortage of opportunities to kill the Roman where he stands or disappear himself into the landscape as easily as the passing shadow of a cloud across a mountain. If this incomprehensible show of restraint must plague Stail nightly, chase his dreams away when he ought to rest, then Decimus can suffer alongside him. “I know not why I’m still here,” he answers mulishly, “no more than you.”

     “I suspect I’ll know when you’ve found your answer by the knife sticking out of my back.”

     “I can only count the moments until that happens. Then you’ll think less of mocking me as you do.”

     Against all odds, this earns a chuckle out of Decimus. Stail freezes when the Roman shimmies closer and lifts the closest edge of his furs, making as if to draw Stail in against his body, both of them beneath a single blanket. The thought dawns on him like a low shiver of uncalled-for warmth deep in his belly. “Cease your grumbling and come here,” says Decimus lowly, giving every appearance of sleepiness. “It’ll do neither of us any good if you freeze to death in the night.”

     Suddenly ashamed of himself, Stail instinctively moves to draw back instead of forward. He wants to know how much good Decimus thinks he’s doing during the day, too. Does he honestly think Stail has been diligent in his questioning of foreign tribesman for news of the Ninth Legion and the vanished golden eagle of Rome? Or does he—rightly—suspect Stail of stubbornly prevaricating? (He has been, for quite some time. Each time they come across another Briton on the road, he merely stops to ask about the weather, if the last harvest was a good one. Through it all, Stail feels the weight of Decimus’s gaze upon his back, and sometimes it’s so heavy as to be exhausting. At times like those, Stail considers giving up the whole game.)

     He can’t say for sure that he ever truly intended to lead Decimus to the eagle’s last known whereabouts, to confide that it rests in the hands of the Seal people or show him the killing grounds where his father was most likely slain. But certainly his reluctance to bring this journey to its only possible end—Decimus’s head on a pike, a crude if necessary victory for the Britons—has grown since Stail first caught himself starting to look forward making camp each nightfall. Anticipating, for reasons he is reluctant to examine, when Decimus’s face would at last go soft and relaxed with sleep, the glint of suspicion disappearing from his eye. It’s then Stail can allow himself to forget, for a little while, what he’s really supposed to be doing here, what his father and mother would’ve wanted, his tribesmen. Instead he wishes he knew how to bridge the distance left between them, whisper his promises into the dark space between them and reassure Decimus that his fears are for naught. Even if Stail can’t justify to himself why it should be so.

     But now it looks as though Decimus would close that remaining distance for him.

     He also reads Stail’s recoil incorrectly, opening his eyes once again to frown at him in the dark. “You may come closer,” he says, voice tinged with offense. “I won’t hurt you.” Then, another awkward pause later, “Do you still not trust me?” Perhaps Decimus intended the question to be soft, but it emerges with an edge of impatience, as do most things that come out of his mouth.

     Stail grunted. “Why should I? You’re a Roman. We’ve all seen what happens to Britons who place their trust in your kind.”

     “A Roman I may be, but I saved your ungrateful hide from a poor death in that pit, did I not?”

     At that, Stail falls quiet, for Decimus speaks the truth there. Had he not swayed the crowd’s favour into letting Stail live that fateful day, a memory now so far suppressed that it seems to have happened to someone else, Stail would’ve met his end at the point of a gladiator’s sword, cheap entertainment for the crowd before being thrown to the dogs like so much meat. He’d been a slave for going on four years by then, relegated to the arena for sport after one too many escape attempts, deemed too much of a liability to be placed in a house. Until Decimus, that is. Perhaps even more than his own inability to bring about his current master’s death  _or_  leave his side, the circumstances under which fate brought them together is something else that’s plagued him nightly. As Petrus was often fond of saying,  _The gods work in mysterious ways._

     Letting the silence stretch out for a few moments, he eventually says, softly, “Aye, that you did. Though to what end, I still do not know.”

     He feels more than hears Decimus’s uncomfortable shift, though when Stail seeks out his gaze, Decimus refuses to meet it, turning his face away so it is half cast in shadow. “I liked your eyes,” he says at last, with the kind of gruffness that speaks to a man finally admitting something that hits close to the bone. It’s too dark for Decimus to see him, even by the light of the fire, but Stail feels his cheeks heat up at the confession and wants to hide himself away. “They showed your spirit. And I thought you were brave, refusing to fight as you did.”

     “You mean stupid.”

     An angry hiss whistles past Decimus’s teeth, and just like that, the space between them is gone, eaten up by his sudden restless jump in Stail’s direction. Without warning, he finds himself pinned beneath Decimus’s weight, the Roman’s hands heavy on his shoulders. Stail sucks in a breath and goes still, even as Decimus bites out, “Don’t presume to tell me what I—” before letting the rest of the statement go silent. Decimus withdraws only slightly, not quite lifting his weight off Stail’s body but pulling back so Stail can see his expression. Is it truly light enough to see by, or has Stail simply memorized the planes of Decimus's face, his square jaw and sharp cheekbones, the rasp of dark stubble around the soft shape of his mouth?

     “Presume to tell you what you—what?” prompts Stail breathlessly, unable to help himself, bringing his hands up to curl around Decimus’s biceps. Even under his heavy woolen tunics, doubled up for added warmth, the thick muscles of Decimus’s arms are hard beneath Stail’s fingertips. They’ve never been this physically close to each other by choice, Decimus never having so much as hinted his interests might lie a certain way, but nor does Stail make a move to shove the other man off him. He should, he thinks. This is uncalled for, on both their parts, and whether or not it’s cold out has naught to do with it.

     “What I think,” Decimus answers reluctantly, roughly. “What I feel. You’d have made a good Roman, challenging certain death like that. You looked it straight in the eye as fiercely as any centurion.”

     Stail swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Is that what I’m doing right now, then?”

     With a sigh that leaves Stail able to perfectly imagine the other man’s eye roll, Decimus huffs quietly and says, “You’ve more witty rejoinders in that head of yours than brains.” Then, as if to stop any such rejoinders in their tracks, he simply leans in and kisses Stail, and puts an end to the conversation entirely.

     Decimus’s lips are freezing but plush, and the inside of his mouth is almost unbearably hot, a welcoming warmth that makes Stail gasp and open to him before he can think otherwise. Still, he almost castrated the last master who tried to touch him this way, vowing death or worse to any who thought his full mouth and big eyes made him an easy target, and on certain dark nights he’s still haunted by the ghosts of slave traders who shackled his hands and feet to have their way with him, soldiers and their mates who liked it when he tried to fight back against their restraining hands and heavy fists. Stail can’t help the way his spine goes rigid at the memory, and it’s enough to make Decimus draw back again, the frown returning as his eyes search Stail’s face for some hint as to the direction his thoughts might’ve taken.

     “I would not force you as your master,” he blurts out, and Stail almost doesn’t recognize the gentleness of Decimus’s voice nor his expression of bashfulness, for all he’s never witnessed it before. “I would not force you for any reason, Stail. I hope that isn’t what you think this is about.”

       _And I am not your pleasure slave, debt of honour or no_ , Stail wants to retort, but Decimus looks so conflicted that he pushes the words back down. “You couldn’t hope to force me,” he says instead, trying to keep his voice steady, and cups a hand against the back of Decimus’s neck to lightly pull him back down, winds his fingers into the soft, dark waves of his hair. “Not if I were unwilling.” Not north of the Wall like this, not without a death wish.

     And certainly not with a face like that, all concern and unexpected tenderness like Stail hasn’t seen since the day he first laid eyes upon his unlikely rescuer. This will have been his nineteenth winter, assuming they survive, that is, and Stail has lived as a slave for four. In all that time, he’s never kissed another person nor shared their breath, and the feeling is heady, addicting. In spite of his better judgement, Stail finds he quite likes it, or at least the man behind it. Most of all, he likes the feeling of power it brings, the knowledge that perhaps one of Decimus’s weaknesses might have been hiding in plain sight all along.

     The fleeting smile that turns up at the corner of Decimus’s mouth is nearly Stail’s undoing, and it’s easier to lean up for another taste than try to explain further, for either of their benefit, why Stail would rather kiss him than kill him. He’s sure he doesn’t know why Decimus wants this either, with Stail filthy from the road, hair matted and thick with dirt, but he reads no hesitation in the way Decimus bundles him close against his body and wraps them both up in his furs, keeping the cold out and their body head trapped inside. It feels warm and surprisingly safe like a cocoon barricading them from the rest of the world, their own little foxes den.

     At the first tug of the Roman’s teeth upon his bottom lip, Stail helplessly abandons all pretense of resistance and lets his legs fall open, making a perfect cradle for Decimus’s hips. He moans a soft, plaintive sound that seems to echo in the nighttime quiet, silent except for the horses’ occasional nicker and the wail of the wind. He can’t regret the sound, though, with such an appreciative audience, Decimus breathing hot and excited into his mouth, his big hands cupping Stail’s face as though holding a vase of fine bone.

     He kisses the same way he does everything else, Stail discovers, calculating but passionate, and with unexpected, measured violence. Uncharacteristically for a Roman, he seems to take pleasure in how Stail doesn’t simply lie back and submit, how instead he pushes back and gives as good as he gets. To his credit, Decimus doesn’t hesitate again either, not to ask if Stail is content or sure of what they’re doing. He simply takes his last answer at face value and proceeds to kiss them both breathless and incoherent with want, until they’re slowly grinding and rutting together there in the dirt like animals.

     Stail has always wondered what it would be like to spar with Decimus in the yard outside Petrus’s villa in Calleva, especially after Decimus’s leg ceased troubling him and he resumed the full range of physical activity he’d had before being wounded in battle. Petrus would've never allowed it, of course, not being naïve enough to trust his nephew's wellbeing to a captive Briton's restraint and mercy. But Stail still thought of it sometimes, tried to predict how such a fight would go. Where Decimus is muscular and bulky, every inch the Roman ideal, Stail is lithe, fast, and experienced with fighting in close quarters. This, perhaps, is his chance to find out just how evenly matched they are. He rakes his nails down Decimus’s back and then slips his hands beneath the waistband of the centurion’s leggings, grabbing firm handfuls of his arse and squeezing hard. The move makes Decimus groan in surprise, body arching, and that’s when Stail seizes the advantage; he tightens his knees about Decimus’s hips the way he would try to control an unbroken horse, then uses the muscles in his thighs to flip him over onto his back.

     At first Decimus seems taken aback by the sudden reversal of their positions, hitting the hard ground with a soft grunt. For a moment his eyes stare sightlessly upward in confusion. Then, instinctively, his grip transfers to Stail’s waist, holding him there between his powerful hands, but he’s not angry like Stail might’ve anticipated. If anything, he seems to have been inflamed further, craning his neck to attack Stail's lips again, and his are kisses suddenly harder, wetter, with more tongue and teeth. Stail must wonder what kind of beast Decimus has been concealing inside him this whole time; he’s like a wild thing suddenly come alive in Stail’s arms, a creature awakened after a thousand-year slumber, rubbing himself against Stail’s backside and moaning his name.

     “Do you wish to fuck me?” Stails asks against his mouth, part challenge, part honest curiosity. He doesn’t yet know if that’s what  _he_  wants, his mind barely having caught up to this new development in their relationship. But the thought doesn’t turn his stomach the way it did with any of the others. Instead it lights a faint flame in its place, kindling low someplace inside him like he could draw real and not imagined warmth from it in the darkness. But there’s a side of him that thrills at his ability to torment Decimus even a little, so Stail rocks his hips experimentally, then deliberately grinds himself down until a choked-off noise escapes Decimus’s throat. He begins to taunt, “I can feel how hard you are, Roman—” but the truth is it feels unbelievably good to him, too.

     “I’d not fuck you here,” Decimus corrects him, the words bitten off and winded. Stail turns his head to follow the sound of his voice as Decimus glides his lips across Stail’s cheekbone to his ear. “Not like this.” Unexpectedly, he slides his hands down and finds the hem of Stail’s tunic, moves them under and up until he discovers the softer flesh of Stail’s belly. The shocking coldness of his fingers earns him a surprised yelp from Stail, and Decimus grins, all teeth. He traces gentle patterns against Stail’s skin that soon grow languid and seductively warm, trails of slow-burning fire that make Stail want to twist and writhe like a snake charmer’s prize, slowing the rhythm of his thrusts until he’s no better than a sinuous, juddering mess in Decimus’s lap. “If you let me, I’d have you in a real bed where I could take all night, make you scream my name.”

     “Or maybe I’d fuck  _you_ ,” retorts Stail automatically, going for bravado, though he feels his ears grow hot at the suggestion. It’d certainly be a first for him, and he can’t decide which prospect excites him more, if he allows himself the fantasy. He can think of far worse things than to be made to weep with pleasure at Decimus’s hands, to think of Decimus weeping for  _him_.

     Seizing the Roman’s wrists, he wrenches them up and over Decimus’s head, pinning them to the frozen ground. Surprisingly, there’s no fight to meet him, Decimus allowing himself to be restrained with naught but a soft hiss and a single buck of his hips. Almost like he enjoys it. Stail can clearly hear the hitch of his breath when he ducks his head to kiss at Decimus’s throat, nosing at the beard growth down his neck and inhaling the smell of his skin, which is musky and smoky from the fire, sweaty from their travels but not particularly unpleasant, for all that.

     “You could only be so lucky, to be had by a prince of the Brigantes people,” Stail murmurs as he mouths at the axe-hewn edge of Decimus’s jaw, licks along the distinctive Roman chinstrap scar. “Perhaps I’ll teach you how to beg me in the British tongue. That would please me greatly.” At the noncommittal sound he receives in response, Stail pulls back slightly and arches an eyebrow, meets Decimus’s gaze glittering with mirth in the soft firelight. “Or does it scandalize your delicate Roman sensibilities to think of being taken by one you view as a lesser man than yourself?” The Britons do not feel so differently on the matter, true, but Stail refrains from saying this aloud. He’s been fucked by men he knows in his heart were not his betters, not even his equals, and so he simply has to believe that is not the true way of the world. His shame can’t hold meaning if he doesn’t let it; being taken like a woman can’t possibly make you less powerful, just as how forcing your pleasure upon someone else doesn’t make you more of a man.

     Following a long pause, Decimus begins, “The gods have ordered it so—” but Stail, thinking he knows where his answer will lead, feels outrage flare in his belly.

     He tightens his fingers around Decimus’s wrists to the point of pain, one he’s all too familiar with. He feels the creak of bones within his hands. “Your gods have the good sense not to venture north of Hadrian’s Wall,  _Master_ , unlike some Romans—”

     Decimus actually  _growls_  at him, a savage noise at the back of his throat that cuts short Stail’s interruption, the latter falling silent out of sheer surprise at the sound. “Idiot,” Decimus rasps out, though he sounds more exasperated than angry. “Just once, let me finish before you condemn me.” He takes a deep breath, glare subsiding slightly, but only barely. Stail, feeling chastened, lets go of his hands, and watches dumbly as Decimus reaches up to nervously twist the edge of Stail’s tunic between his fingers. “I’ve taken pleasure in the act before.” Shrugging, he drops his eyes to Stail’s chest, expression going more serious than bashful as he stops again to consider his words. Stail wants to kiss away the crease between Decimus’s heavy eyebrows. “I... don’t mind it. Even if the gods deem it a sin to be penetrated by a man of lesser status. All I know is that with the right partner, it feels good.”

     “I wouldn’t know,” Stail retorts bitterly, though he’s also a little taken aback by Decimus’s confession, unsure of what else to say. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think himself in danger of coming to  _like_  the Roman. Not just trust him, which he admittedly does, since Decimus has willingly allowed—if grudgingly—Stail to observe him in his moments of weakness, this secret being another one. In that, at least, they are on equal footing. Stail might still not respect him, might still hate everything about his damned empire, his damned  _eagle_... but the man himself is a different story, a puzzle Stail has yet to solve. Roman or not, Stail knows the trust Decimus has placed in him in turn is no small thing, because it doesn’t come cheaply for Stail either.

     “You’ve not lain with a man before?” Decimus asks, misinterpreting Stail’s response.

     His scrutiny is intent but nonjudgemental, though Stail can’t bear it either way, suddenly hating the weight of those pale green eyes on him. Mulishly sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, he rolls off Decimus and settles onto his side with his arms folded, staring at some undefinable point in the darkness over the other man’s shoulder. They might as well go back to sleep, for all the amorous mood has deserted him.

     But of course Decimus shifts with him, moving until they lie facing each other, and Stail is caught off-guard by the hand Decimus reaches out to touch his face, blunt fingertips lightly tracing over his eyebrows, the outline of his mouth.

     “I’ve been a slave since my fifteenth year,” Stail blurts out, the unexpected display of tenderness surprising him into talking, words being a sufficient distraction from trying to interpret that which could lead to unsafe revelations. He’s already uncommonly fond of Decimus; the last thing he needs is to tether himself to one of his oppressors with affection. “If you consider being taken by force and against my wishes ‘lying with a man,’ then yes, I’ve lain with several, on many different occasions. But it’s not the place of a slave to derive any enjoyment from it.” He flushes, hating the truth of it, but forces himself to meet Decimus’s eyes. “You’re the first master who hasn’t expected that of me.”

     “Until now, you mean.”

     As if ashamed, Decimus begins to withdraw his touch, but Stail grabs his hand and holds it against his face, wriggles closer until their chests push together, Stail’s as skinny as Decimus’s is broad. “As far as your fellow Romans are concerned, it’s your right,” Stail tells him roughly, though it feels bizarre to do so. Never before had he encountered a Roman who needed reminding of the things to which he’s entitled. “But you’d leave me to my rest if I asked it of you, I know you would.” Why is that? Stail complains to himself, loudly and often, of how much Decimus fails to understand about the Britons and their customs, but he’s beginning to realize there is so much he doesn’t understand either. Maybe not about Romans, but Decimus—he is a mystery unto himself, the many secret parts of him as unknowable as the moon and the stars. But when has that ever stopped a man from gazing up at the heavens each night and dreaming of them?

     Decimus must read something of Stail’s thoughts in his expression, for his breathing speeds up almost imperceptibly and his gaze drops to Stail’s lips, eyes hooded. Inexperienced though Stail may be, he knows the signs of a man growing excited, and his own cock gives a sympathetic ache in response. “Is that what you’re asking?” Decimus rasps. “For me to leave you alone?”

     Stail kisses him in response, one hard, brief press of lips before he pulls away. It’s a bright flash heat in the cold; it lingers and lingers, reaches its claws down into his chest, his guts. He means to say something arch, like  _Does that answer your question?_  but Decimus crashes their mouths back together before Stail can form the words, arms winding strong and possessive around his waist, his huge hand almost spanning the width of Stail’s lower back above his arse.

     Whether it’s because of their earlier talk of penetration or because Stail’s blood is simply quick to run hot, the way Decimus’s tongue pushes inside his mouth immediately makes him think of the act of fucking, makes him imagine how it’d feel to have Decimus enter him another way. He moans at the mental picture, unable to prevent his imagination from flashing forward—with a painful hope he feels in his throat—to all the things Decimus promised him, to all the things he’d promise in return if given the chance, and hooks a leg over Decimus’s hip to lock their groins in tight.

     They rock together like that for a while, breathless and trying to pant into each other’s mouths between kisses, Stail attacking with his teeth and Decimus pressing forward with his tongue. It feels more like a battle than anything, too pleasant to be an argument but too violent to resemble the polite disagreements Stail used to observe between Petrus’s patrician dinner guests at Calleva. He thinks this is how he and Decimus would play fight with each other, maybe, if they were so inclined, roughing each other up like puppies in basket, discovering one another’s soft spots with affection. For some reason the thought settles something wild and fluttering in Stail’s chest, a sudden realization that this has not changed them, for all it is unfamiliar territory. But when Decimus moves his hands, fingers snaking beneath the hem of Stail’s tunic to unfasten the laces at the front of his leggings, Stail falters, thinking madly that perhaps Decimus has changed his mind about wanting them to take their time with each other, that he wants to mount him here and now in the dark, snowy wilderness. Stail has never been troubled by the nighttime forest before, but that doesn’t mean he wishes to be taken in it.

     “But how am I to—” he begins, brow wrinkling, before Decimus hushes him with a kiss.

     There’s warmth in his eyes when he draws back to study Stail’s face. “That’s not my plan,” he assures him. “There are other ways men can find pleasure together without resorting to a quick fuck on cold ground. Nor do I have any desire to remove more clothing than is necessary.” His lips quirk up in a smirk, and Stail notices a certain smugness in his expression he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before, Decimus’s moods so often leaning towards the stormy or uncertain, weighed down by invisible ghosts. It’s almost as if being in an unknown country has been good for him, shaken him so far out of himself that Stail can observe this rarely seen side of him.

     One of his thighs slips between Stail’s legs, pressing up against the underside of his bollocks at the same time Decimus reattaches his mouth to Stail’s neck, sucking hard and robbing him of any notion that this is mere play. He wonders if he will look branded to the next person they should happen to meet on the road, bearing the Roman’s mark as plainly as the tattoos that decorate Stail’s arm, symbols of his tribe, of belonging. Then Decimus succeeds in undoing Stail’s leggings the rest of the way and reaches inside, callused fingers and warm palm closing around his length, and Stail ceases to care entirely about what this says about him, if this will henceforth make him a traitor in the eyes of all who look upon him. He’s too consumed with pleasure at the feel of another person’s hand on him, too preoccupied groaning Decimus’s name with an edge of desperation so sharp he wants to spill blood with it.

     “Mine too,” rumbles Decimus, voice craggy with desire as his hand begins stroking slowly up and down. Blearily, Stail takes this to mean he should reciprocate somehow, the thought confirmed when Decimus adds, “Put your hands on me, Stail, do as I do.”

     Stail complies but fumbles his way through loosening the leather fastenings, lightheaded and overwhelmed and distracted by the slow coaxing grip of Decimus’s hand on his cock. He whimpers when he gets the garment open enough to push his own fingers beneath the heavy wool, moans outright at the hot flesh that meets his touch and the way Decimus immediately gives his purr of approval. Decimus shimmies forward until there’s scarcely room for air to pass between them, then releases Stail’s cock just long enough to take both of them in hand, threading their fingers together around their cocks.

     “At the same time?” Stail asks, startled, though he’s already tightening his grasp by the time he hears Decimus’s harsh whisper of “At the same time,” in agreement.

     This way, it feels almost identical to how Stail would touch himself, and he quickly loses himself in the rush of sensation from Decimus’s touch and the glide of their cocks together. It’s a terrible thrill, so much more than he’d ever let himself imagine or long for, and yet his own excitement is doubled and doubled again by his delight at watching Decimus come undone from up close. The shocks of pleasure Decimus coaxes from him are heady, but equally potent is discovering for himself what Decimus likes, what makes him curse and moan in a way that’s so unlike his typical black demeanour.

     Their dance isn’t careful or graceful by any means, Stail clumsily trying to synchronize the movement of riding against Decimus’s thigh and rhythmically pushing his own cock into the tight circle of their joined hands. A frighteningly short amount of time seems to pass before he feels himself nudging up against the edge of release, reaching for it like a drowning man for a rope and letting his moans echo into the night, unabashed. He’s almost glad they’ve both given up on kissing for now, since it’s all too likely he’d lack the coordination for it, and feels each of Decimus’s hot gasping breaths against his throat, the occasional nip of teeth as Decimus attempts to stifle a cry.

     After a moment, however, Decimus lifts his head to meet Stail’s eyes, and he raises the hand he’d placed against Stail’s lower back earlier. For a second he merely traces the shape of Stail’s mouth with his fingertips, calluses rough against his skin, and then Decimus rests the pads of his index and middle fingers against Stail’s lower lip until he gets the message to take them inside. Stail blushes but dutifully parts his lips, cheeks burning even hotter when he sees the immediate effect it has on Decimus, who swears softly and hisses, “Gods, how you look right now,” and jerks his hips against their fists helplessly. Stail sucks desperately on the fingers until they’re slick with spit, moaning a little at how obvious it must be that he’d rather be sucking on something else.

     Though he withdraws them with obvious reluctance, Decimus replaces his fingers with his mouth and kisses Stail messily, sending his hand on a slow journey southward with an obvious goal in mind, past the waistband of Stail’s leggings and into the crease of his arse. Stail yelps at the first brush against his hole, a gentle pressure that teases a needy, undignified whine out of him, and clutches at the fabric of Decimus’s jerkin in a wordless plea for him to continue. It’s uncomfortable without any kind of oil to ease the way, but Stail has experienced so much worse and scarcely anything better than this; he whimpers when Decimus pushes the tip of his finger into his body up to the first knuckle and crooks it just so. He feels unbearably greedy and flayed open with need, alight with so much pleasure that he’s shaking with it, hungry for something he never knew he could want again.

     Meanwhile, both his and Decimus’s hands are slick with wetness where they’re joined around their cocks, nearly slipping in it, and it’s so perfect and perfectly overwhelming that Stail merely lets go with a choked-off mewl, too tangled up in Decimus and pleasure to think of anything but forgetting himself, spilling his seed between them until he feels hollow, carved-out. Perhaps less than a minute goes by before Decimus squashes his nose against Stail’s cheekbone and calls out his name, shuddering through his own orgasm and bucking inelegantly, coming over their fingers and against Stail’s belly where his tunic has ridden up.

     For a while it’s easiest to float in the afterglow, Stail being far less than capable of more at the moment, but he’s content to merely lie there and wait for his heart to stop thundering in his chest, to listen to Decimus sucking in air as he tries to get his breathing under control. To Stail, the quiet, stuttering huffs Decimus makes as he comes back to himself sound more vulnerable than his grunts of pain when the physician cut into his knee to remove the shrapnel embedded there. The effect is similar, though, softening Stail’s heart toward him almost a shocking amount, and it frightens him enough to make him want to shiver violently.

     He blinks away what could be sweat or tears from his eyes, moisture that threatens to freeze in the cold either way, and his throat wants to close up at the sudden shock of understanding that seizes him, the abrupt realization that Decimus, whether he knows it or not, has somehow been right about Stail’s intentions, his loyalties, since they moment they set off on this journey together. Although Stail has been far from truthful about his knowledge of the whereabouts of the Eagle of the Ninth, Decimus trusted Stail not to betray him to the Britons, even despite them being his own people. All this time, Stail has been trying to comprehend what could have possibly given Decimus cause for such faith in him, other than Roman arrogance, but apparently faith  _is_  its own reward, no matter the cost or the reason for its existence.

     But it is only a matter of time before they encounter the Seal tribe, Stail knows. He can’t prevaricate forever, especially not after tonight; something in his face will reveal itself to Decimus eventually, and they’ve been skirting their territory for days, risking capture by their presence alone. They will slaughter Decimus the minute they discover he’s a Roman. Stail can’t think of anything he wishes for less, but he will have to be quick on his feet if he’s to come up with a way to stop them from delivering the killing blow. More than likely, it won’t be a plan of which Decimus approves, and with a sinking feeling, Stail realizes the only way to save him might be to send him away. Away from Stail, away from this tentative thing between them that’s as quivering and frail as a new blade of grass poking out from frozen ground.

     “Are you well?” Decimus asks, startling him out of his thoughts with a gentle touch to his face, and Stail blinks again to refocus on him, gaze snagging momentarily on the flush that’s yet to fade from his cheeks, the sweat that’s beaded beaded above his top lip and caught in his beard.

     “I’m fine,” answers Stail, so taken aback by by the concern behind the question that his voice actually cracks. “Fine, if a bit sticky. That was—”

     A crooked half-smile brightens Decimus’s expression, but it’s sly, showing colours of that arrogance Stail glimpsed before; sure enough, when Decimus moves his hand slightly, Stail realizes with a jolt that there is still a finger pressed inside him. “Unexpected?” Decimus suggests, wiggling it a little, and Stail can’t bite back his groan in time, cock twitching feebly.

     “You’re an ass,” he says, exasperated. Decimus does something complicated with his eyebrows to show his amusement, even though the rest of his face doesn’t move, and Stail rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “Yes, it was unexpected, to say the least.”

     “But not unwelcome.”

     “Is that how it seemed to you?” Stail returns, honestly curious.

     Decimus shakes his head. “I don’t think you complained or expressed the desire to kill me for an entire ten minutes,” he remarks. He finally withdraws his hand from the back of Stail’s leggings—he’ll never admit this out loud, but Stail immediately misses it—and settles the now-familiar weight of his palm against the exposed flesh of his hip instead. Bundled together in a postcoital haze beneath the furs, Stail’s warm to the point of sweating, though he doesn’t try to shift away back to the neutral territory he abandoned not a half-hour ago. “That must be a record.”

     This coaxes a smile from Stail in spite of himself, and he playfully shoves at Decimus’s chest, though it’s more of an ineffectual nudge and hardly comes across as stern. Gods, will Decimus ever take him seriously again? He can hardly picture himself maintaining an air of aloofness towards someone whose mouth he kissed red and shiny just moments earlier—a mouth he’d like to do considerably filthier things to than kiss. “Just let me catch my breath,” he retorts. “I’ll be more than happy to make up for it then.”

     Though Decimus begins to chuckle, the attempt is interrupted by a wide yawn he smothers against Stail’s cheek. “You can resume lamenting my existence on the morrow,” he says lazily, snugging up close against Stail, this time for sleep. He—pointedly, Stail thinks—closes his eyes and sighs. “Otherwise I won’t be awake to hear it. I’m weary, as should you be. I suggest you sleep and replenish your energy. We’ve another long day of travel ahead of us.”

     They still haven’t moved to clean themselves off, which will grow uncomfortable very quickly, but it’s much easier to wind his arms around Decimus’s middle instead. At first Stail is tentative about it, unsure of how the gesture will be received, but he finds himself relaxing bodily into the other man when Decimus simply draws Stail’s head down to his shoulder and shifts them into a more comfortable position, settling in for what remains of the night.

     “And where do we go from here?” Stail asks, wincing when he realizes his question might also be interpreted another way. He immediately wishes to take it back, but since the only ones capable of changing the past are the Roman gods in Decimus’s stories, he falls silent instead, waiting for the answer.

     He feels Decimus’s shrug, then a lingering press of lips against his hair. At first Stail thinks he won’t receive a response, that perhaps Decimus has simply fallen asleep, but then there’s another sigh and gentle squeeze to his hip. “I have a good feeling,” Decimus murmurs sleepily, not sounding worried in the slightest. Stail might even go so far as to say he sounds content, and he can’t bring himself to rob him of that. When has Decimus  _ever_  been known to have a good feeling about something, and who knows how long it’ll last? They could meet their death or a member of the Seal tribe any day now—the two things may well be synonymous—and for the time being Stail thinks they’re both allowed some peace and a decent night’s sleep. He can fret in the morning, search the treetops for hidden warriors with arrows drawn. “A good feeling, and a mostly capable guide by my side. Our destination will become clear.”

     Still, he also can’t resist the impulse to provoke Decimus at least a little; that he enjoys boiling the Roman’s blood is simply another part of him, like the tattoos that name him as Brigantes or the brand that names him a slave, both of which seem to have conspired to lead him to being here with someone who ought to be his enemy and his master, but who wound up becoming something else entirely.

     He gives a gentle snort of laughter to show what he thinks of Decimus’s method of decision making. He can’t see the other man’s face, but he assumes his expression is one of exasperation. “Oh, well, if you have a  _feeling_ , then I suppose there’s nothing to worry about. The answer will come down from the clouds and light the way forward.”

     “Idiot,” Decimus responds automatically, and playfully jostles Stail within the circle of his arms the way his father used to do whenever Stail said something impertinent, which was often. The fingers on his hip dig in harder, enough to make Stail squirm and bite back on a yelp, shoving back until Decimus subsides with a huff of laughter. Like puppies, Stail thinks again. If any Briton saw them now, they’d be laughed, shamefaced and still devoid of Rome’s Eagle, back to the other side of Hadrian’s Wall where they belong. “If the gods choose not to reveal to us the right path, that’s what I have you for. So be still, and for the love of all that is sacred, please stop talking, and you can decide where we go next in the morning. My life’s in your hands, don’t make me regret it more than I do already.”

     Stail smiles, just for himself, but hopes Decimus can hear it in his voice. “It’s your fault, Roman. You knew I would be a horrible slave from the beginning.”

     “I did,” Decimus agrees. “That’s why I wanted you to live.”

 

 

 

 

  
  

**Author's Note:**

> Stail is a victim of past rape and abuse (some of it underage) at the hands of his former owners/captors, and there are nongraphic references to these past events both in his thoughts and in dialogue with Decimus. Stail is at first hesitant to become physically intimate with Decimus, though they have a conversation about it and Decimus receives verbal consent from Stail to continue.


End file.
